


Family

by erintoknow



Series: Aria [37]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, F/F, Found Family, Funeral, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 23:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19344529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erintoknow/pseuds/erintoknow
Summary: Ariadne needs to focus on something that isn't sleeping.Julia Ortega needs to come clean about something that happened at the funeral.





	Family

        You ought to be using Jane: to scope out your next hit, to maintain her network of contacts, to catch up with Dr. Mortum. That would be a productive use of your time.

        So of course you aren’t doing that.

        You’re in front of your work desk, sleeves rolled up as far as you dare. Your suit doesn’t need repairs, but getting in that marginal improvement to the Rat King’s coolant system is better than sleep. Better than making corpses walk. Better than stupid meaningless dreams of coughing blood and their fuzzy half-memories tasting smoke and death. Don’t think about gunshots and lightning, the smiling reflection dripping shark teeth.

        Focus on the soldering torch in your hand and the music in your headphones.

        It doesn’t matter what you play. Whatever you can get your hands on, the best genre is free after all. Right now it’s some woman you’ve never heard of before with a low sometimes raspy, sometimes screaming voice. She’s energetic, easy to sing along with while you re-solder wiring for the third time.

        You don’t recognize that it’s your phone ringing until the fourth chime. You almost drop the torch into your lap scrambling to pick it up before the call goes to voicemail. “Who’s this?”

        “Ari!” Oh, it’s Ortega. Of course it is. Why the haste to pick up the phone anyway? Who else was it going to be? The President? _God??_

        “Ortega.” Don’t sound excited, don’t sound relieved to hear her voice.

        “I know it’s short notice, but are you busy right now?”

        Say yes you’re busy, way, _way_ , too busy, hang up on her. “No, I’m pretty bored for once, what’s up?”

        “Great! Can we meet up?”

        Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes. “Yeah, sure, where?”

* * *

        The smell of salt under oil. The water hasn’t been safe to swim in since before you were ‘born.’ Yet, a part of you yearns to run out to the sand and into the crash. Hazy memories of another beach, another shore. Nothing you can remember, more like 0 kb files tucked away in somewhere.

        “Careful, with all that fabric on you’ll sink.” Ortega nudges you.

        “I’ll just have to push you in first for a raft.” You shoot back.

        “You’d think I’d float with all this metal in me?”

        “All that hot air makes you a very buoyant old woman.”

        You don’t need to look at her to know she’s frowning at that, and just knowing that is enough to bring a small smile. You want to grab her hand, feel the disks of metal that give her namesake. You don’t. You can’t. She’s your enemy even if she doesn’t realize it. Even if you don’t realize it.

        The wind pulls at the rat’s nest you call hair. Maybe you’ll start trying to comb it again. Just to keep Ortega from worrying even more about you. You can worry enough for the both of you. “Why’d you want to meet up so suddenly, anyway?”

        You can’t read her mind, but you know her enough to pick up on the change in vibe, the way she shifts in how she carries herself. It sets you on full alert. “There’s something I’ve been sitting on for a while actually.”

        “Oh?” You try to sound casual, like there aren’t sirens ringing in your head. Like you aren’t glancing around for the best route back up the beach where Ortega can’t follow.

        “There’s just never been a good time for it…” She glances at you, and the two of you meet eyes. There’s no hiding your fear that way and she grimaces at it. “Do you have any family? Still around, I mean.”

        You can’t take her gaze on you, you step away towards the water, feel the sand crunch under your boots, hide your arms under your shawl. “Family?” You ask, your confusion at least genuine enough. It’s been a long, long, time since Ortega fished _that_ well. “What’s bringing this on?”

        “After you…”

        “Died?”

        “After that. At the funeral–“

* * *

_I’m in deep shit now. The red and blue of ambulance lights reflect off the wall through the window, as I hunch over in the chair. Honestly, it’s just a broken nose, he’ll live. He deserves worse for what he was saying about you. And yet, I’m the one here hiding in the minister’s office while everyone else loads into their cars. Steel puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes, lets go. I’d rather he give a lecture, that would be at least a gasp of normalcy. I nod at him, he nods back, leaves without saying a word. He’d make a better Marshal than I ever did. He wouldn’t punch out a reporter live on national television. He wouldn’t have gotten you killed._

_Everyone else has left by now, probably all gossiping about the fiasco. There’s something unnerving about being alone in an empty church. I wonder what you or Themmy would think of all this. You both would probably both be mortified. A church service? With a_ priest _? Well… you don’t get a vote any more, should have stuck around if you had objections._

_“H-hello? Excuse me?”_

_I look up from my hands, wipe at my eyes to clear my vision. Peering around the doorway is a woman in funeral garb and long straight hair dyed a deep shade of blue, an anxious expression on her face. If it wasn’t for the hair job, I’m guessing she was late thirties, early forties, has that soccer-mom build to her. Older the me, at any rate. I try to look normal. Not like the kind of person who loses it and decks the press. “Can I help you?”_

_“You’re, uh, you were Alex’s friend then, weren’t you?” Alex? Who’s Alex? The woman looks ready to bolt at any moment. “You are, right? Sorry, I don’t normally make a habit of pestering heroes.”_

_God, I don’t have it in me right now to be normal, never mind deal with fans. Try to smile, it feels fake, offer a handshake to draw her into the room. It’s a limp pantomime and ends mercifully quickly. “Just Ortega is fine. I don’t believe we’ve met…?”_

_“Chelsea Becker.” She says as we let our hands drop. That gets my attention. No way that’s a coincidence. You never talked about your family, no matter how many times I tried to get you to open up. Hardly the only fortress you kept locked down tight, but here was someone who might open a gate._

_I straighten up in my chair, examining Chelsea with renewed interest. There is a slight resemblance, I guess, with the more angular, almost boyish features, but nothing definitive, nothing I could point to say, ‘a-ha.' So instead I start with a “So you knew…?”_

_“Alex, or um, ‘Sidestep,’ I guess?” Chelsea says, then hesitates before adding, “but maybe sh- they used a different name with you?” A tiredness seeps into her voice. “That would be just like them.” She steps around a box of church candles, rests her hands on the minister’s desk. “They hoarded names like some women hoard jewelry.”_

_There’s a pain in my chest, I have to force myself to unclench my hands, keep my arms from tensing up. Practice a calming exercise. Stay smooth. I’ll never live it down if a stray spark of static burns down a church. “Yeah, I–” I have to swallow the words first, “–I was Alex’s friend. I’m sorry, she never mentioned…?”_

_“Oh, I’d be shocked if she had,” Chelsea doesn’t laugh, just forces a small smile as she pushes some papers aside to sit on top of the desk, letting her feet dangle. “If you knew Alex, you know trying to get her to talk about herself was worse than pulling teeth. Never when you wanted, and when she did, always in tears.”_

_“She was a private woman.” I say in agreement. It feels like a safe enough statement._

_“We hadn’t talked in years anyway.” Chelsea says, not hiding the bitterness in her voice. “We had a big fight about the whole vigilante thing.”_

___I don’t say anything, I don’t think I need to, thank God. Just listen as this stranger pours her heart out about you. She’s another hurting woman looking for a confessional, and Marshal Charge is never off-duty._ _  
_

_“I have no idea where she came from. Just one day, I’m suddenly watching out for this stick of a thing too proud- no, I think, too afraid to accept help.” Chelsea lets out a long shaky breath, and tilts her head to look me with red, puffy eyes. “Had to keep tricking her into thinking she was helping_ me _rather the other way around. Wasn’t easy.” She gives a brittle smile._

_I find myself returning her smile with an exhausted one of mine own. “Misdirection was definitely the name of the game.” I say. “In more ways than one.”_

_“She had this whole fantasy about making a difference and I–” Her voice hitches. “I told her. I warned her; she couldn’t afford mods and she wasn’t a boost. She was going to throw her life away for nothing.” She balls her hands into fists as she talks. “It was insane idea and she was an idiot who was going to get herself killed.”_

_“ _A lot of people owe her their lives,” I gently counter, saying it as much for myse _ _lf as for her.___ I should follow the script, put a hand on hers, or her knee, or her shoulder or something. Say some gentle meaningless comforter. Instead I’m trying to process what she’s saying, how it all fits together in the ‘Ariadne Becker’ puzzle box._

_Chelsea bangs her fist against the side of the desk. “I know that, God damnit. Everyone knows about the damn Nanosurge. I followed every damn report I could. I just wish–“_

_“That it wasn’t the last thing you said to her.” I finish. The cold comfort of the script finally coming to me. It’s nothing I haven’t had to say a dozen too many times before, and it feels robotic, inadequate, every time._

_“The last time I saw her was right after her first big fight in costume. I told her I was leaving Los Diablos to take a job in Atlanta.” Chelsea bangs the desk again, face twisted in anguish, or guilt, or both. “I couldn’t afford to turn it down. It was just a bad coincidence. But… _I don’t think she took it that way._  She was always so scared, so paranoid, despite everything.   _I’d have taken her with me if I could have._ ”_

* * *

        Ortega pauses in mid-sentence, then shakes her head. “Do you know a… Chelsea Becker?” She asks, holding her breath.

        A dozen different scenarios run through your head, all of them terrify and paralyze you. “I mean, those are both pretty common names,” you say cautiously, “why?”

        “Someone I met at the funeral.” Ortega’s words make you want to sink into the earth, run into the sea. Do anything to get out of this conversation. “Ariadne…” Ortega continues, trepidation in her voice. She’s either oblivious to what’s going on in your head or pushing ahead without mercy. "Is she your mom?”

        You blink.

        You can’t help it. You start laughing.

        Doubled over and clutching your sides. You can’t see straight. Julia calls out, alarmed, and she grabs you by the shoulders before you can fall onto the rocks. “Ariadne!” She taps you lightly on the face. You have to blink the water out of your eyes.

        “My _mom_? You thought she was my _mother!?_ ” You repeat, incredulous. No point playing coy after that outburst. You struggle to get a grip on yourself, dig your fingers into Julia’s arms instead. “What did you tell her?”

        “I just admitted I knew you, that’s all.” Julia raises her voice, defensive, confused.

        “Why was she even there?” You ask, your fascination burning through the absurdity now. There’s nothing Chelsea could possibly know about you that would endanger you now, but it’s never good to get blindsided like this. Past lives, alternate lives, all crashing into each other behind your back. Fuck, what a mess.

        Julia gives you a pained look, “It was your _funeral_ , Ariadne. She flew in from Atlanta for it.”

        That gets a pang in your chest. You don’t understand it. Stare up at the cloudless sky, the circling seagulls. They don’t have any answers either, brainless feathery assholes. “Ortega, I swear I’m telling the truth, she’s not and i quote, my “mom.” wow, you almost killed me with that.” Of course she’s not, what on earth happened between the two of them to give Julia _that_  impression? Why would she have shown up at all? “Why would she do that?” You whisper, humor giving away to bewilderment.

        “She cared about you, of course she came.” Julia insists.

        “No she didn’t, you senile old woman. Why would she?” you snap back. You let go of Ortega, try to disentangle yourself from her arms and stand back up again. “Look, you want the truth? Chelsea and I were on the same bus to Los Diablos, like, _fourteen years_ _ago_.” You shrug, trying to make it seem like no big deal, to play it off. “We ran into each other maybe a few times afterwards, I guess? She was just another busybody who never left well-enough alone. And then one day she _did_ up and leave and that was that. Sound familiar to you?” That’s not a fair barb and you know it. You pull away from her, eager to put some distance between the two of you. You don’t want to see her reaction to that. Power-walk down that beach, restless, aimless. Pull yourself together, remember you’re among enemies: always.

        Ortega follows behind, dogging your steps. Never taking the hint, or maybe taking it too well? The problem with lying so regularly is that when it comes time to tell the truth, how can you prove it?

        “And your last name?” She asks.

        You turn around to face her. “Cosmic coincidence.” You lie, staring her in the eye. Is this the closest either of you have come to openly acknowledging ‘Ariadne Becker’ is a name you made up? You don’t know how to feel about that; how to feel about a lot of things right now.

        Ortega doesn’t back down. “I think you should know… she was proud of you.”

        You resume walking, put distance between the two of you. “She was proud of an imaginary dead woman then.” You spit out. You hunch your shoulders, pull your shawl up over your chin

        Ortega grabs your shoulder from behind as she catches up to you. She slides her hand down following the form of your arm under the shawl. “Stop it.”

        You stand there, not looking at her. “Stop what?”

        “Stop with the brooding hero routine.”

        “Well, I’m no hero, so wish granted.” You should push her away, shrug her off. You want to scream at her. She’s being an idiot. Why does she care about this? Why dig up even more corpses? It’s going to kill her. Why did you come here? Why did you answer her phone call? Why do you keep letting her in?

        Ortega pulls at you, hard, forcing you to turn around or be knocked over. She glares at you, and you shrink away from it, from her. “Who stopped the Nanosurge? She demands.

        “That’s not–“

        “Who’s pulled my ass out of the fire over and over?”

        “I was just–“

        “Who did an emergency repair so I didn’t electrocute myself in Mexico?”

        “I couldn’t just–“

        “Who stayed up with me all night after every bad break up?”

        You stay quiet.

        “Who stayed at my Mamá’s house with us every holiday?”

        You can’t look at her.

        “Who came to visit me in the hospital after the Gala?”

        “…that was a mistake.” You say, voice weak.

        “Oh? It was a mistake, was it?” Ortega asks, an edge to her voice. “Were you lying then? Or are you lying now?”

        You don’t have a response to that. You need to get out of her grip. You need to get out of here.

        “Was that kiss in the elevator a mistake? Or the ones on this beach? What about all the rest of them?”

        You want to die. To escape. To not be here right now having this conversation.

        “Well, Ariadne _Becker_ , which is it?”

        You flinch under the weight she puts on your last name. “…I don’t know.”

        There’s a hand on your face, and then Ortega is kissing you. You freeze, every instinct screaming at you to run, and then her other hand wraps around you and tell your instincts to take a hike, and kiss Julia back. It’s too hot for this, so you compromise. You unfasten your broach with one hand and shrug off your shawl onto the rocks before reaching up to run a hand through her hair.

        Her teeth catch your lip in the quick pause for breath and then the two of you are fighting to push tongues past each other and it’s gross and you are terrible at it and you keep hitting your noses like drunk jousters and you have no idea what you’re doing while her hands run up your body and you cling to hers as if she’s a life preserver.

        It’s the shame of the twinge between your legs that finally pulls you out of it enough to disengage. You pull away from her, smoothing down your shirt, making sure nothing rode up. Cast a quick mental check for any possible witnesses. None, save the seagulls, and honestly? Fuck those guys.

        Julia looks at you, face flush, mouth slightly agape. Your heart aches at the sight of it. You don’t want to think about what you look like. You both stand there, in an awkward, flushed silence.

        Finally, Julia says, “accept that your mom is proud of you, you _pendeja_.”

        You stare at her. “ _W-what_?”

        “You heard me.”

        Is this what having a stroke is like? Did you die this morning and no one told you? Are you in hell right now? “Did– did you just… _make out_ with me, to– to– to– to– win an argument about my, my…” you choke on the word, pound your fist against Julia’s shoulder. “Damnit, she’s not my mom! Fucking hell! Shit!”

        “She cried for you like one.” Julia’s hand is back on your arm, just firm enough to making running difficult. “Don’t throw those feelings away.”

        Your brain is short circuiting. Steel’s going to show up in clown make-up and then you’ll wake up screaming again. “I can’t believe you made out with me to win an argument about my mom.” You whisper, your voice strained, throat tight.

        Julia’s expression softens a little, finally. Mercifully. “What can I say?” That old familiar grin slips back onto her face, so smug, so punchable. You want to kiss her again. “I have a unique skillset.”


End file.
